God, I Miss the Screaming
by Mad Maudlin
Summary: Filch fantasizes about the Weasley Twins. Not in the way you're thinking, though.


Title: God, I Miss the Screaming  
Author: Mad Maudlin  
Email: mekamorph@yahoo.com  
Category: Angst, darkfic  
Keywords: Argus Filch, Mrs. Norris, Weasley Twins, whips, canes, seriously creepy   
Rating: r  
Spoilers: OotP  
Summary: Filch fantasizes about the Weasley Twins. Not in the way you're thinking, though.

Disclaimer #1: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. 

A/N: This fic bothers me a lot, and I _wrote_ the damn thing; it only got creepier the more I put down. This isn't slash, although I suppose you could read a sexual subtext to it. I have to go take a bath now.

* * *

"God, I Miss the Screaming"

by Mad Maudlin

It's a shame, Mrs. Norris, my love, it's a travesty of bloody justice. Seven years I've waited, watched, wrote a record of their every deed and doing. Seven years I've thought about what they'd get when their time came. Seven years—snatched away. Gone for good. It's practically a crime. 

We've followed them, love, haven't we? We've hidden in shadows and watched them, in lessons, at leisure, just waiting for our chance. Two of a kind, the same faces, the same postures, the same wands and the same laughs; we've watched them, yes, so closely we could know them in the dark. Since the beginning I kept my eye on them, waiting to catch them in the act, waited for punishment. But Albus, old fool, he wouldn't let us use the old discipline, would he, my sweet? No, Albus thought that time and teaching cured all ills. I brought him proof, I brought him demands, and every time—"No, Argus. It will do more harm than good." I begged him, and he denied me. He knew better—greatest wizard alive, they say. And so those two brats scrubbed my floors and washed my windows, they laundered sheets and mended hinges and waxed bannisters with my house-elves. I gave them everything what the old fool would allow, and did it change them? No, love, of course not…only made them worse, made them bolder. I watched them then, when they was meant to be suffering; I watched them smile and whisper, red heads pushed together, brushing sweat off each other's faces, tugging at their small robes that strained when the stretched or bent over. Completely untouched. Unpunished. If I'd had a wand—

But their time would come, wouldn't it, love? Yes, I thought that someday, their time would come, and we would be waiting for them then…

It was Dolores who done it, wasn't it? Nice Dolores gave us hope again, she did. The seventh year, the final year, but now it would be my turn, oh, yes, my darling. They would pay now, they would see, once Dolores had her way. I had only to catch them and then they'd be mine, all mine, and then they'd never laugh at us again. Little wizards, little wands—but not much use when your hands are shackled over you head, are they, my love? They would've been cocky at first, proud, smirking when I brung them to the dungeons. They would've talked back, until the gags went in. Start with the whips, yes—they'd remove their robes, they'd kneel, and shiver, showing off those pretty little muscles that they brag about to the girlies, the pretty clean skin without so much as a scratch on it. Kneeling in their pants, in front of me, at my will—and I would tie them to the post, and take my time. One, two, three lashes for the first one—make sure the other could watch—pink stripes on white skin, and that fine smooth back ruined so perfectly, all for me, all my doing. I'd do the other, just the same, and take it back and forth, varying the strokes to keep it interesting. They mustn't get used to it, after all, or it'd spoil our fun. They'd squirm and cry out with each kiss of it, and I would take my time, take it all real slow, and savor it until they were raw.

Then the cane, my sweet, the cane—long and hard and cruel, but it makes such lovely sounds, don't it? I'd let them up one at a time, bend them over my desk with their wrists and ankles tied. I'd take down their pants myself so they were bare-arsed to the world, shivering and shaking. See how cocky they'd be then, arses in the air, showing off the family jewels to us from the back. I can see them like that, helpless, trembling, and before I'd start I'd loose the gag a bit. And, oh, they'd scream with the first blow—stiff wood on tight flesh, a red mark on white cheeks. They'd scream, and beg, and sob, and they'd writhe there, trying to get away from the hurt. Still got to keep it interesting, tho'; sometimes one side, sometimes the other, or both, from the bottoms of their backs to the tops of their thighs, Hard and harder, quick and slow, until they can't scream no more, and the last blow splits them open like ripe fruit. 

__

Yes.

Blood on the floor, blood on the desk, blood running everywhere from their arses. You'd like that, wouldn't you, my pet? We'd leaved them for the moment, tied up like that, while I got the irons ready. They'd watch that, too—I'd let them see me sticking them in the fire, the long black shafts going red near the ends, getting hot for them. They'd beg me while I waited—_Please, Mr. Filch, don't hurt us, Mr. Filch, we're sorry, we're sorry, don't burn us—_like music to us, isn't it, my love? Those little voices all raw from the screaming, little faces so scared…and when they saw what we had for them, all red and hot and ready, oh, they'd shake then, and cry, and piss themselves for fear. I can smell it sometimes, my love, the hot metal, the burns, the piss. I can hear the crying. I'd show 'em the iron, and the bits of skin stuck to it, and the shape. M for miscreant, M for mischeif, M for magic, M for mine…

It would be _glorious._

We'd leave them like that, too, mother-naked on the floor and covered with snot and blood and piss, wouldn't we, love? The house elves could take care of it. Merlin knows they got enough practice fixing up each other. And d'you think they'd ever set a toe out of line again? No…no more dungbombs or fireworks or bloody _swamps_ in the corridor from them. No, they'd have been cured. Reformed. Model students, in my opinion. And every time they seen us, my sweet, they'd have remembered what we done. And they'd have _cowered._

Eh, but it's all gone wrong now. They're gone—escaped us, right under our noses, and Dolores don't even do nothing. It's a shame, Mrs. Norris, a bloody shame. We didn't even get to use the chains. 


End file.
